


On Emotions

by princesstutifruti



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesstutifruti/pseuds/princesstutifruti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m not good with emotions. I never have been. But for you, Sherlock Holmes, I would walk through fire.</p><p>John's POV on Mary putting Sherlock in the hospital...twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Emotions

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fic! Please tell me what you think!

I’m not good with emotion. I never have been. It helped in Afghanistan, when I had to be not good with emotion. When I had to be detached.

So when I get back to the flat, our flat, and sit down in my chair, I’m not really sure what to do. You’re in the hospital, again, after my wife shot you. My wife, who I thought I knew and loved. My wife, who I don’t really know, and am not sure I love.

I end up sleeping in that chair, my chair. The chair that I sit in, with you sitting across from me, and our client sitting straight to my right. The chair I got drunk in only a few weeks ago, celebrating me getting married. Getting married to her. How little I knew then, about anything. No, that’s not exactly true. I knew things back then. I knew who I loved and who I didn’t. It’s right now, that I don’t know anything about. It’s right now that’s twisted and messed up and screams _not good_.

I pay for sleeping in the chair the next morning, of course, when my neck aches and my lower back has gone numb. But these little aches and pains are something that I can count on. Something that won’t change in the space of a day, or a few hours.

My phone is dead. I rummage for a charger I may have left here at some point and plug it in. I want to shower, to wipe everything from yesterday that I can off of me. But I can’t do that. It would mean wearing the same clothes I’m wearing now, wearing the same clothes I was wearing yesterday, and that would defeat the point of everything.

The phone beeps as it is revived from the dead, then beeps in rapid succession, indicating that I have texts. I hope they’re from you. They’re from you.

Not dead —SH

I expected at the very least a celebratory emoticon —SH

Or a text telling me to shut up—SH Plug in your phone, John—SH

Still not awake?—SH

Where’s the army training?—SH

I’m bored—SH

Find me a case—SH

And on it goes. I can feel the smile creeping on to my face, the stupid smile I get when you’re being you. Right now “you being you” includes sending me fifteen texts telling me to find you a case less than twelve hours after you had to go back to the hospital for being shot at. The soldier in me is impressed. The doctor in me is concerned. No, that’s not right. The doctor in me is less tense now than it was a few hours ago, when I didn’t know how good of a recovery you’d make. The doctor in me is slowly relaxing. The friend in me is still strung up.

I take another ten minutes to scroll through all the texts you’ve sent me and then finally hit the ones from other people. Lestrade and Anderson demanding details. Mycroft’s one word reassurance: alive. And then there’s Mary.

I’m sorry. I love you.— Mary

She’s sent only the one. Five words, and she’s presented where she stands on all of this. Five little words and suddenly it’s all on me to make the next move. Everyone’s picked a side but me.

I’m dialing your number before I can really register what I’m doing.

“A bloody case?” I’m saying, before I know that I’m saying it.

“Don’t be tedious, John, I’m bored as it is.”

And you go on to tell me what you’ve deduced of the poor nurses who check on you hourly, who I’m sure are all kind hearted people. But when I mention this, you, of course, tell me that no one is inherently good or bad. And the weight that you’ve lifted off my shoulder for five minutes comes crashing down because we’re not just talking about nurses anymore.

“It’s only proper that you have to make a decision about a person, whether they’re good or bad,” I argue.

“When have you ever sought out anything proper?”

You’re right, of course you’re right. It’s irritating but I’ve stopped longing for the day to see you wrong. The day you were wrong ended up with you jumping off a building and disappearing for two years. You just hate being wrong, don’t you? Before I can say anything to you, before I can hang up or you can hang up or another nurse walks past your door, my phone vibrates. I take it away from my ear, barely glancing at the name before putting the phone back up to my ear.

“Go,” you say.

The first night I met you, I shot a man for you. The night you came back from the dead, I punched you and then stopped talking to you. You thought I was angry at you. I was angry at you, but more than that I was scared. Scared that something would happen and you’d disappear again, and I would be left behind to drown in my own sorrow. A few days later I started talking to you again and you took it as forgiveness while I gave it as permission. I welcomed you back into my life even if it meant risking myself and allowing you to hurt me again. You’re a drug, do you know that? You’re a drug and I’m an addict and together we’re a beautiful sort of destruction.

I’m not good with emotions. I never have been. But for you, Sherlock Holmes, I would walk through fire. Even if fire, in this particular case, happens to be my Mary.


End file.
